From This Gutter We're Still Staring at the Stars
by CaffeineChic
Summary: Blow this ship to hell


"Even if you have to blow this ship to hell." The words whisper into his ear, his hand pressing tighter against her spine even as they both draw back, catch and hold each other's gazes.

_Blow this ship to hell._

And her with it.

Not a frakking chance.

"I need five minutes with the President."

"Admiral." D'Anna's tone implies she thinks him a small boy about to have a favourite toy taken away. "We're leaving..."

"It's non-negotiable."

"Bill." Her voice calls to him, questions his request. He hasn't taken his eyes off her.

"Non. Negotiable." His arm is still around her waist, and he slides it back now in search of her hand, grips her fingers tightly in his, squeezing, tugging. Two days in a Raptor, waiting for this woman. He won't let her go.

D'Anna cocks her head, indicating a room just off their current one. He nods once before moving towards it, Laura in tow. They are through the door which he (barely) allows time to close before he has her pressed against its adjoining wall, his mouth on hers, demanding, fuelled with fire. She opens beneath him, hand leaving his to grasp at this flight suit as their tongues meet, argue, acquiesce (who wins is irrelevant, this bout has no losers). Her jacket slips from her shoulders to the floor, a pool of cloth at their feet.

His hand is on her neck, kneading with his thumb, pressing along the line of skin that he can reach. She moans and he is not sure whose knees give way, but they are crashing further into the wall. He should have demanded an hour. He wants a week. He breaks away to breath in (oxygen, her presence, the smile currently curling her lips).

"Bill..." Her tone is soft, comforting yet strong. He knows she has guessed what he is about to say (it does not stop him saying it).

"I won't destroy this ship if you're on it. No argument. I will not kill you." (Don't ask me that – anything else, but not that, not ever.)

"If they get Earth..."

He cuts her off, his mouth slicing through the words to find hers again, replacing her worry with something stronger, clearer, better. "I love you."

He can see the fears and dread thunder within her pupils, whirring out to him in a language only he can read. If the Cylons get Earth, they're all dead – their love may not matter. He thinks the opposite is true. It will be all that matters (to him, and he knows, really, to her too.)

"You can't take that risk, just because your..." She trails off – he can hear the words she is trying to choose from as clearly as if she were speaking aloud... _girlfriend_ (too adolescent), _lover_ (too factually untrue – at present), _partner_ (undoubtedly, but too formal).

He helps fill in the blank. "When you get back to Galactica..." He pauses, lets the when-not-if settle in her ears (a lightning bolt of love flashes through her eyes) "...marry me." He offers her the joining of their lives, in the face of both their possible deaths (and an appropriate noun to end her previous sentence). He is the optimist. He makes one of her, too.

Her fingers grip into his flight suit, delve in above the zipper and pull him sharply to her, her mouth (her tongue, her lips) meeting his. Somewhere in the tangle a "Yes" unfolds, an answer, a promise, an approval as his hand wanders down between her legs, stroking her as best he can through her pants.

"Five minutes."

"Only three left."

"Frak."

"No time."

He withdraws his hand and replaces it with the push of his thigh, positioning between hers. He raises her left leg, holding it against his right as she takes his hint and starts to rock, to push against him.

He whispers in her ear, "Husband. I'll be your husband." (More to himself than to her, but striking her core with the power of that single word.)

HusbandHusbandHusband – the word pulsing in his head with each upward rock of her hips towards him, counterpoint to the WifeWifeWife that rings out as she rocks away. (She will always be the President, this new title will not reduce her – he is not asking her to shrink with the addition of this future designation.)

He has broken open the shell of _President_ that has been hiding (and protecting) the woman beneath. He is not asking her to stop being one and be the other, not asking her to choose. He wants both. He wants _her_. She starts to crest, about to crash on the shore of this moment, riding out the wave that breaks her. The friction of their layers, the time limit, the location, the Cylons on the other side of the wall, all add to the ferocious build of pressure (and pleasure) that accosts her as he hears his name trying to tear from her throat (only to be captured on escape by his mouth).

Her breathing is ragged as a soft laugh frees itself from her frame. He lowers her leg, hands bracing her waist as he kisses her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her smile.

He pulls back to find she is looking at him, something in her expression that he can't quite grasp, some resolution she has made. Her voice is quiet, determined "If... if you're one of them..."

He tries to interject, to joke, "You're screwed."

But she will not be deterred. She voice is louder, fuller. "If you're one of them, I will still love you."

Something has happened in the two days she has been away, he thinks, that has altered her just enough for this to be true, but for her still to be _her_.

"I'm not a Cylon."

"Ok." There is no sigh of relief, no hint that her words had been fallacy, a trick to draw out an admission. She grins as she walks away, tossing a smile over her shoulder as she leads him back to the door. "I'd still like to be screwed though."

Blow this ship to hell, with her on it.

No. Frakking. Way.


End file.
